A Poem: To My Oldest Friend

We used to walk under
the tunnel at Fire Island,
yelling nonsensical noises
just to feel the vibrations
bounce back and tickle our
sun-kissed ears—souvenir
jars filled to the brim with
misplaced sand grains
and crushed seashells.
Now, we skip the Mister
Softee’s ice cream cone
with chocolate sprinkles
on top, and save the calories
for a cold Heineken after a
long week of swaying
metal detectors across
the surface of a seemingly
endless beach, finding
nothing but copper coins
and disappointment.